


pale-faced saints

by swapcats



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, sun and moon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swapcats/pseuds/swapcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pantheon," Leona says, dropping her sword to signal that she's done. "After the Rite of Kor--did you dream about it?"</p>
<p>	She wants to know if this is guilt. Guilt over something she hasn't done in the waking world.</p>
<p>	Pantheon stands straighter and digs the flat end of his spear into the ground. Leona feels his eyes on her through the slits in his helm, and after a moment, he steps forward, clasping her shoulder tight.</p>
<p>	"Not all enemies want you to save them, Leona," he says, swinging his shield onto his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pale-faced saints

       She has not attended the Rite of Kor since she marred the tradition and shamed her parents, her tribe.

       Leona sits as the guest of honour, given a seat that carries all the weight of a throne, and watches the ritual from above the arena. She is close enough to hear the cries and screams and see flashes of red, but she cannot make out the expressions on the faces of children who have been told they have no choice but to kill one another.

       Little has changed in the last decade. The children, some of them barely fourteen or fifteen, wear the same, worn Rakkorian armour as ever, and their blades are sharpened to fine points. The golden-brown of the arena floor is darkened by blood the rain can't wash from stone, and the tribe stand shoulder-to-shoulder, solemnly silent.

       All of them were victorious in the arena. Only Leona and the children remain untested, and the latter will not hold true for long.

       "We did not think to see you here, Chosen," Pantheon says from her side.

       He stands tall, hands clasped behind his back. He wears the armour that has become him, the armour that defines him, and Leona wonders when he last removed his helmet and took in his reflection. In the last decade, Leona hasn't been granted the chance to map the way his face has changed since they were children.

       Still, who is she to judge? There she sits, clad in the armour of an ancient sun-champion. She wonders if anyone would recognise her without it.

       "I could not ignore the invitations forever," Leona says, eyes darting across the arena as the first pair of children are forced to face one another.

       "You could, if you truly wanted to," Pantheon says, a hint of amusement in his voice that's muffled by his helm. "You've always been stubborn."

       In spite of the scene before her, Leona's lips twitch into a smile.

       "You know me too well," she says.

       Sometimes, she thinks he's the only one on Mount Targon who knows her at all.

       They watch the ritual in silence, for a time. Leona owes it to the children moulded into warriors not to look away, but she tries to watch without seeing. At the start of every fight, the combatants look up at her and Pantheon. He is the paragon of strength, an example to follow. And she, she is something different. Something beyond them, somehow; she is sunlight made flesh, there to guide them, to shine through them.

       She is the Chosen. They respect that, even if they do not forget the tales of her own Rite of Kor.

       "It was good of the Solari to do without you, today," Pantheon says between fights, aware that he's getting to the root of the issue.

       Leona looks up at him. His helm is tilted, turned towards her. She can almost imagine the way his brow lifts, daring her to speak plainly.

       "My time is my own," she says, but it isn't the truth. Not entirely.

       There are others around them, edging close. Pretending that their attention is focused fully on the fights and not their conversation. Even without the threat of eavesdropping, Leona doesn't know how she'd express the unease that has been swirling within her, the feeling of being pushed and pulled by the Solari's will. And the questioning. The constant questioning in the back of her head, the way she sees clearly that things are not as they ought to be...

       But Pantheon has always been a fighter. He simply nods, putting the conversation to rest.

       She stays for a while longer. The bodies of the fallen are dragged to the edges of the arena when their parents are too disappointed to step forward and claim them.

       She stands abruptly, armour clattering. What is she trying to prove, and to who? That she can make her own choices; that not every aspect of her life is preordained, as predictable as the rise and fall of the sun? 

       "Leona," Pantheon says, masked eyes fixed forward. Leona stops, unused to the sound of anything but _Chosen_ on people's lips. "Don't be a stranger. Should you ever wish to spar..." 

        Leona smiles softly, bowing her head. 

        "I'll keep that in mind," she promises him. The Rite of Kor may not have changed, but Pantheon hasn't, either. "Thank you."

*

        Diana returns to Mount Targon once a year, when the end of winter meets the promise of spring. The Solari don't know how close she gets, paying reverence to something beyond them all in the ruins of a forgotten temple; only Leona knows she's there.

        Each year, Leona follows Diana into the darkness. She remains in the shadows beyond the temple, but doesn't for a moment think that Diana doesn't know she's there. Sometimes, Leona wonders why she herself always makes a pilgrimage of it; perhaps it's because for a night, Diana doesn't lash out at her.

        She sees her arrive. Diana's white hair glows in the moonlight and the brand on her forehead burns bright. Leona presses her fingers to her palms, awash in everything she has refused to feel in the months since she last saw her: grief and frustration, and a deep, aching sense of longing and loss. 

        Diana pauses at the temple's entrance, beaten into the ground. She looks around to ensure she hasn't been followed, as though she doesn't realise Leona is waiting amongst the trees. Satisfied that she's as alone as she'll ever be, Diana disappears into the ruins.

       This is the part where Leona waits. Where she looks to the sky, eyes fixed on the moon, desperately wanting to understand. She realises, deep down, that she's keeping vigil. Ensuring that the Solari don't disturb whatever it is Diana comes here for.

        But something is different, this year. Leona can't explain it. Just like she can't explain her headaches of late, the flashes of inspiration that come from nowhere, grating against her own moral compass.

        She follows Diana.

        Shattered steps and walls of damp earth and rock swallow her. It is almost pitch-black in there, and Leona doesn't dare to draw attention to herself by seeking a guiding light. She trails her gloved fingers across the walls, feeling the remnants of mosaics rise and fall at awkward angles. Moonlight awaits her at the end of the corridor, spilling in through a roof that hasn't been there in centuries.

        She wants to understand what knowledge, what truths, are locked within the ruins she walks. She wants to know beyond knowing what it was that caused the Solari to turn on Diana, to demand her death; what drove them to brand her, what drove the moon to imbue her with its strength.

        In the central chamber, Diana stands atop a low altar. Moonlight illuminates the murals and carvings that haven't been stolen by time, but Leona's eyes are fixed on Diana.

       Interrupted, Diana turns to her, fear in her eyes.

        Leona's about to wonder why, until she remembers the blade in her hand.

        Of course.

        It's all so clear now.

        Diana's set her blade down for her ritual. It could be over so easily. The endless lies she has to tell the Solari when she returns from her task empty-handed, the way she has to purse her lips together when they speak of the Heretic. There'd be no more wondering, wanting. No more heartache. That quiet, gnawing sense of being pushed further and further beyond herself would be gone, gone forever...

        She lifts her blade, uncertain of when she shed her shield. Diana holds her gaze, inching back towards her own weapon. Leona pounces. She is the Chosen of the Sun, here with a higher purpose; she won't let Diana slip through her fingers yet again.

        Hissing, Diana raises her arms and blocks the blow with her gauntlet. Steel scrapes against steel and Diana launches herself back, snatching up her khopesh. Good, Leona thinks. Let it be a challenge. Let her be worthy of the Sun.

        Strange. She expected Diana to say more. 

        She only grits her teeth and grunts, meeting Leona blow-for-blow.

        Leona's heart pounds in her chest, fire burning in her veins. It's exhilarating. This is it: this is the purpose she's been searching for since the Sun chose her. This is _why_ the Sun chose her.

        Diana catches her arm, blade stinging to the bone. No matter. She can fight one-handed; she can end this. And she must, she must. No matter how _right_ this feels, no matter how she suddenly realises she has been _longing_ for this.

        Diana strikes and Leona steps back, ready to retaliate.

        She swings her sword in a semi-circle, sweeping across the room. The edge of her blade catches Diana across the stomach, and it isn't like the Rite of Kor: she doesn't simply see colourful bloodstains from a distance. She feels the metal sink through layers of flesh and she breathes heavily, not daring to blink. 

        Diana's blade clatters against the altar. Her hands desperately reach for her stomach and Leona follows the path they take, seeing parts of Diana that no one should ever see. Diana desperately tries to hold herself together, to force viscera back into her wound, but there's so much blood. Her hands slide against skin and she spills open.

        It'll be a slow, agonising death.

        Leona doesn't think twice. 

        She pulls back her bloodied blade, spearing Diana through the throat. A gurgle escapes her throat, a puff of air, and she falls back, life pouring across the altar.

        She's done well, Leona tells herself. She's done right by the Solari, right by herself. Right by the Sun, and that's all that matters.

        She's earnt her armour. Proven why the Sun spared her life in the first place.

        She was just, Leona tells herself. She was just, she repeats over and over, but when she awakens, her pillow is damp with tears.

*

        The nightmares are a burden seven-months borne. 

        She does not always dream of Diana, but it is a rare morning when she wakes and does not think of her. It isn't the images she can't shake, or the feeling of blood on her hands that has never truly spilt; it's the fact that she _enjoyed_ what she did, as though she had finally found her higher purpose. Her heart races, and she is dizzy with the thrill of justice, the sense of _belonging_ , knowing that she has done what is expected of her.

        The feeling doesn't pass. It sits in the pit of her stomach like a led weight, and throughout the day, as she tends to her duties, she begins to wonder which of her thoughts are truly hers. Something has coiled within her, something is twisting and clawing its way into her blind spot. Impatience surges through her, but she tolerates it because it has been building, building, ever since she first took up the mantle. 

        She seeks out one of the Elders when the pressure behind her eyes begins to make her vision flash.

        "What am I to do?" she asks, once she has told him of her uncertainty. "What is my _purpose_ here? There must be something greater for me to do than stay here, acting as a--" She pauses, forcing out a bitter laugh. "As the _Chosen_ ; as an example of ancient strength. I was not merely given this responsibility to raise morale and strengthen faith."

        The Elder frowns, wrinkles deepening. They have never appreciated Leona's tone, her constant questioning; they are even less pleased by it than her enduring refusal to take a life.

        "Chosen," he says sternly. Do they even remember her name? "You do what you must. You endure your duties, whether or not they are _interesting_ enough. As long as the Heretic walks free, you will always know your purpose."

        He offers her tea for her headaches, to ease her into a dreamless sleep.

        "Turn away from the moon," he advises, trying to make his voice soft. Trying to sound as though he cares. "Night holds nothing for you. Sleep, Chosen, and rise with the dawn."

        Leona takes the paltry offering and leaves without a word.

        In the corridor, she catches sight of her reflection. 

        The lack of sleep has stained her. Dark marks rest beneath her eyes, smeared in the shapes of crescents.

*

        The tea does nothing. She seeks Pantheon out, desperate to believe that her problem is idleness. She needs to feel her muscles ache, her breath burn in her chest. Pantheon meets her at their old training ground, having brought nothing but his trusted spear and shield. There is no need for blunted training weapons between them.

        "You would make a magnificent warrior," Pantheon says, breath already coming heavily. Leona's head rings, but not with a sourceless headache; her right temple thuds where Pantheon caught it with the shaft of his spear. He lunges again and Leona presses her shield to his. "You could tear through an entire Noxian army! Imagine the glory!"

        Leona can't take it as a compliment. Why cut through the masses, likely conscripted into the army or lured there by the pull of propaganda, when they could find another way; when they could help Noxus set down their weapons and become something greater?

        Yet no matter how Leona tells herself as much, there's a certain thrill to the fight. Her pulse spikes though she _knows_ her life isn't in danger, and a certain ease washes over her as her movements become fluid, automatic. She wonders what it would be like to take _more_. To truly feel the full weight of victory. 

        To have more than sweat and her own blood on her hands.

        The thought paralyses her.

        Pantheon knocks her to the ground, and when she springs back to her feet, she rushes at him shield-first, driving him back into a tree. Pantheon grunts, likely smiling beneath his helm, and the two of them break apart. 

        Leona's ribs are bruised, nose still bleeding. Pantheon, for his part, seems pleased with the workout, but Leona isn't done yet. On and on they spar, beyond the point of exhaustion, until the ache in her muscles is the only thing she knows. Pantheon doesn't question her, doesn't suggest they stop.

        He's a warrior. He fights until the battle is over.

        "Pantheon," Leona says, dropping her sword to signal that she's done. "After the Rite of Kor--did you dream about it?"

        She wants to know if this is guilt. Guilt over something she hasn't done in the waking world.

        Pantheon stands straighter and digs the flat end of his spear into the ground. Leona feels his eyes on her through the slits in his helm, and after a moment, he steps forward, clasping her shoulder tight.

        "Not all enemies want you to save them, Leona," he says, swinging his shield onto his back.

        He heads through the forest, back to the tribe, leaving her with more questions that she started with. Her heart rate drops and the sun begins to set, causing the evening air to cool the sweat on her skin. 

        The throbbing in her skull is replaced by a familiar buzz, and the sun on the horizon has no answers for her. It does not listen. It does not care. It only _orders_ , only wants.

        Leona closes her eyes, reminding herself of who she is, of what she stands for.

        Colours flash behind her eyelids, as though she's been staring into the sun for too long.

*

        Leona does all she needs to in order to acknowledge that she isn't dreaming. She takes in her surroundings and moves where she pleases; there's nothing linear about her actions. She splashes cold water on her face before heading out and runs ideas through her mind to see how she reacts to them.

        It doesn't help. Of late, it has been as though someone else has been thinking for her. The dreams refuse to back down, and so Leona has not slept for more than a scattered hour or two, these past weeks.

        This time, when she heads towards the overgrown slopes of Mount Targon that seem to be perpetually in the shadows, she doesn't follow Diana into the ruins. She presses a hand to a tree, feeling the knots of the bark against her palm, and wills herself not to move. She waits. She tilts her head towards the sky, moon full and bright above her.

        Leona's eyes are heavy by the time Diana finally emerges. Hours have passed, and like always, Diana knows she's there. She turns towards the line of trees, eyes flashing like the blade in her hand. She's taunting her. Drawing her out. Leona knows she isn't supposed to take the bait, is supposed to head straight back to the upper slopes and the Solari and their indecipherable plans for her, but, but--

        She gives chase. She bounds after Diana, armour clanking awkwardly as she leaps over rocks and felled trees, following her through the darkness. The muscles in the back of her legs ache, and still she follows, dropping her shield that she might move faster. Diana looks over her shoulder, but Leona isn't certain whether she wants to ensure she hasn't caught up, or that she's still there.

        The moonlight shows how pale she's become; how one day, there'll be no distinction between her skin and her brand.

        Diana leads her down the steep, rocky mountainside, into the valley below. She doesn't stop there, though. Doesn't try to lose Leona, either. She lures her into a village, knowing that Leona would never draw her sword if there were innocent passers-by who could get caught between their blades.

        Diana skids to a stop in the centre of the village, waiting for her by a moss-covered fountain.

        Leona doesn't want the chase -- the hunt -- to end, but she has no choice.

        "Diana," she says, immediately tensing. The word tastes wrong on the tip of her tongue, as though she no longer has the right to speak it. She takes her in under the dim light of a tavern open late into the night, and sees the way her gaze darts around, lips twitching into a sharp smile every few seconds. What can she say to this woman and her scattered thoughts? The time for apologies has come and gone. "You look..." She pauses, shaking her head. "Come. Sit with me."

        Leona isn't certain what inspires her to make the offer. Part of her knows she's desperately clawing at a past that was lost to them years ago. Diana's fingers twitch. She looks towards the moon, back to Leona and nods. She brings her knuckles to her mouth, stifling a laugh. 

        Inside, only a few patrons remain. They sit apart from one another, so trapped in their own misery and stupor that they don't spare Leona and Diana a glace. Even here, though, the barkeeper recognises her -- recognises the suit of armour she has become -- and doesn't hesitate to bring all the drink and food Leona asks for.

        They sit opposite one another in a corner, plates and steins creating yet another wall between them. Dully, Leona realises she can't recall the last time she ate, but the sight of food turns her stomach. Diana doesn't hesitate to tear into all that's on offer, shredding meat between her teeth, eating messily, without restraint.

        "Diana--" she starts.

        Diana looks up at her, brow raised. 

        Leona doesn't know what there is to say. She wonders how long it's been since Diana scavenged a meal of the sort; the way she dives back into it, not caring to find out what Leona might have been able to bring herself to say, tells her it might've been months.

        "Why do we keep doing this?" Diana asked, eventually.

        She sniffs loudly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

        Leona wants to know who this woman is. Is she really the woman she loved; the woman she convinces herself that she loves still? What would she feel like in her arms? If Diana ever let her hold her again, would she _want_ to keep her arms around her?

        The woman in front of her isn't Diana. She knows that now. Her eyes brim with a light that isn't her own. She has been hollowed out, shaped to serve some greater purpose. 

        But who is Leona to speak? She doesn't believe that she's any different. Diana must look at her and see as much of a stranger as she does.

        Diana's shoulders rise up around her ears as she leans forward, clasping her hands together under the table. Her eye twitches. All of her movements are jumpy, erratic, as if she has more to fear than Leona.

        "Don't look so bitter," Diana says, running her tongue across her teeth. "I told you, didn't I? You're just a pawn in this. I'm just a pawn in this."

        "Yet you still visit the ruins every year," Leona says, frowning.

        Diana shrugs, slumping in her seat.

        "I don't have to let knowing stop me," she says. "I tried, once. But the sea is at the mercy of the tide, no matter how it fights."

        Leona searches for the words to retaliate, but she's right, she's right. Sat opposite her, the pull, the gnawing within her, is stronger than ever. She meets Diana's eye and for the first time in years finds herself in the present. She lets go of the lies she's told herself. There are no pretences, here.

        "That's enough," Diana decides, draining one of the steins. "This has gone on long enough."

        Leona follows her out of the tavern, dropping a handful of copper coins on the bar. This is where they part, where they go their separate ways. For another year, if both of them are lucky; sooner, if the Solari have their way.

        Diana heads down a street leading to the flatlands. Leona glances back to Mount Targon, and her eyes flash as though the sun has risen and she's the only one who sees it. Her head begins to pound. Hunger claws at her stomach, and through the exhaustion in her bones, dreams start to blend with the waking world.

        "Diana," she calls, following her down the street, beyond the village. "Diana!"

        Diana takes wide, brisk strides as though she can't hear Leona. When she finally stops, she does so abruptly. They're close. Face to face.

        Leona searches for the words she's never going to find.

        "... does your head ache so?" she asks, pressing her fingers to her temples. "How do I make it _stop_?"

        Diana's mouth twists into a sad smile. Reaching out, she wraps her arms around Leona's shoulders, drawing her close.

        "It doesn't stop," Diana whispers. "Even when you listen, it doesn't stop."

        Leona presses her face to her neck. Breathes her in. Diana inches back to kiss her forehead, her lips, and for a moment, there is blissful, still, silence. Darkness washes over her. She's found what she needs, but it's gone, gone before she can think to wrap her fingers around it.

        Diana steps back, drawing her khopesh and slicing the inside of her calf.

        Leona grits her teeth, but doesn't put weight on her injured leg. Diana holds her blade high, not caring to wait for Leona to draw her own weapon and oh, she's right. She always has been. This has gone on for long enough. She remembers the stories the Rakkorians told of the way the deceitful would be cursed to forever roll a boulder up a hill it could only ever roll down; and what is this, if not a mockery of that?

        Her hands are calloused and her body aches. Again and again she has tried to push Diana out of her own darkness, but she relishes in it. This torment is of Leona's own choosing. It could be over any time she wishes, but she repeats it over and over, never crossing that hill.

        She draws her sword, blocking Diana's next attack. She isn't going to let her cut her down where she stands.

        This time, she isn't going to let Diana run. She's going to push through the pain between her temples, the tremors running through her. Together, together. They'll push past this together. They'll find their own purpose; it isn't too late for them to be something other than pawns, avatars of celestial bodies they'll never truly understand.

        Diana grins every time Leona parries an attack. Every time she pushes forward or baits Diana back.

        Their swords sing to the sky, and Diana digs her heels into the dirt and bends her knees, about to launch herself forward.

        Bracing herself, Leona holds out her shield.

        Diana crashes into it, grin slipping. The light fades from her eyes, and, and--

        And Leona discarded her shield on the side of Mount Targon.

        Diana opens her mouth to speak. Blood rushes between white teeth, and fear floods Leona at the thought of looking down. But she knows she has to. She owes Diana that much.

        Her sword's sunk deep in her chest. Diana trembles, hands reaching out. She clasps Leona's face, blood smeared fingers staining her skin, and what Leona sees in her eyes cuts _her_ to the core.

        A brief glimpse of freedom flashes across them. When she smiles, bloody though it is, there's no strain behind it. 

        Diana tries to speak but chokes, knees giving way.

        Leona doesn't need to hear the words to know what they are.

        _You fought back. After all this time, you did it--_

        It's all Leona can do to kneel by Diana's body, fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword, until dawn breaks along with what little's left inside of her. The blade does not come out as easily as it went in: she frees it in stops and starts, causing Diana's body to writhe and jerk. She turns her back on the sun as she heads towards the mountains, and does not for a moment think to clean her sword.

        Yes, Leona decides: she loved her. Loves her still. Whatever and whoever Diana became doesn't matter; had she been allowed to, she would've given her so much of her light that no one ever would've been able to tell the difference between night and day again.

*

        Leona catches sight of her shield on her journey up Mount Targon. Sunlight glints off it, and she quickens her pace, feeling all the warmth spring has to offer beat against her back. She has done it. She has bowed to the will of the Solari and the Sun, and yet her head still pounds. The pain is such that she cannot focus on the ache in her chest that burrows straight through her.

        She has bowed to the will of the Sun and yet it follows her up the mountainside. It demands more, more, bloated with its own greed. _This_ is her purpose, Leona realises; to be a puppet. In the years that have passed, how much of herself has she lost? How much has she willingly given away?

        Too much, too much.

        Blood on her armour, she marches straight through the tribe, not stopping until Pantheon's hands are suddenly around her wrists.

        If he speaks, she doesn't understand it.

        "The Rite of Kor," she whispers, freeing her hands. "I did not--I am a _fraud_. I do not deserve to..."

        "Leona," he says firmly. "What is this about?"

        _What happened to you?_ he doesn't say.

        "The Rite of Kor, I never..." She grinds her teeth together. Oh, how it feels as though everything within her has shattered. "I am _challenging_ you, so..."

        Pantheon stands silent for a moment.

        "Do you understand what you're asking of me, Leona?"

        She steps back as though she has already been struck. Shaking her head over and over, she forces out the word, "Yes," and if Pantheon has ever cared for anything but battlefield and bloodshed in his life, she knows he will believe her.

        She needs to know. Needs to prove this to herself. She has not lost herself to the Sun, has not become as unfeeling as the Solari. She has not changed, not deep down. She still would not-- could not--

        Blood pounds in her ears. Either there has not been time to draw a crowd around the arena, or the _thump-thump-thump_ in her ears drowns them out. Her fingers wrap tightly around the hilt of her sword as though they are of one flesh. She doesn't think she's let go of it ever since--

Pantheon sets aside his shield. They will not forgive him for this, and Leona knows he would not want them to.

        The blade of his spear meets her sword. There will be no carefully placed, bloodless blows this time. Leona thinks back to her first Rite of Kor, desperate to recall the determination she once clung to. Her desire to remain true to herself, to never spill a drop of blood if she could avoid it; none of that remains. She is but a distant echo of herself, and all she does now is a futile effort to prove that she's something she hasn't been in a long time.

        She fights hard. She fights well. But Pantheon truly understands what it is to kill without hesitation, without fear.

        Leona hears his spear slice the air, and with a final swing, the blade meets her throat.

        Suddenly, the world is red and wet. Lips parted, Leona clamps a hand against the gushing wound, but doesn't drop her sword.

        There is no clarity. No relief. She doesn't understand the sense of freedom, the gentle ebb of peace, she saw in Diana's eyes. There is only blood in her throat, flooding her mouth, choking her, choking her.

        The pain drowns out the constant thrum that has enveloped her thoughts, and her fingers cannot hope to hold back all that floods from her.

        The ground rises to meet her knees. Above her, as the world starts to darken, Pantheon removes his helm, carefully setting it at his feet by his bloodied spear. Oh, Leona thinks; his eyes are the same. They soften his strange, strong features, turning them to a familiar blur.

        There might be no freedom to be found in the slow, constant burn of pain, but as darkness claims every inch of her, Leona's last thought does what it can to be of comfort.

        The sun, at least, will not rise tomorrow.


End file.
